


Down To Earth

by susiephalange



Category: The Martian - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 12:08:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11252880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: It's December, and Christmastime is approaching, and Mark has returned from not being dead on Mars. Of course you're celebrating.





	Down To Earth

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request from my tumblr, where I was asked " _after he returns from Mars, during Christmas, and it's just a bunch of fluff and like maybe making the tree and waking up next to each other?_ " and you all should know me by now, fluff is my kryptonite! So I wrote it, mostly on the back of a receipt while I was out today at the library, mostly on my phone. 
> 
> Ooh, also, [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTQD0weUTF8) a song to listen to while reading! I know it's not a Christmas song, but whenever I hear this, I sort of always think about Mark Watney and _The Martian_ and I love it. 
> 
> Read on, Readers, and enjoy!

When Mark returned to Earth, it had been the greatest day in your life. Yes, even greater than the day you were married, or perhaps met the guy. It felt like all the worrying and the fear that followed the phone calls –  _Mrs. Watney, your husband has been left on Mars and has died_  and  _Mrs. Watney, your husband is alive and stranded on Mars_ and  _Mrs. Watney, your husband is returning to Earth_  – had dissipated. After the quarantine and debriefing and all the protocol that followed returning from space travel, you were strangling Mark with one of your famous hugs.

He doesn’t mention this, and neither did the NASA psychologists, but he’s different since returning to Mars. His quirks are accentuated, and humour seems to be something he relies on heavily. Mark never wastes food, conserves energy meticulously. It’s almost like a PTSD thing, but with Mark being the first human to have survived so long on Mars, there’s not enough facts to back up the condition. It’s okay. It saves the electricity bill a lot. But it’s been months since he’s returned home to you, and now it’s December. The world around the family home is starting to be covered in the seasonal dusting of snow. It’s like you’re living in a snow globe, this Yuletide, with Mark in the house once again.

On the first day of the Christmas month, you’re woken to find him not in the bed. It’s funny, Mark usually tries his best to sleep in most days when he doesn’t have classes to teach at NASA, and when you’re not at your laptop freelancing art to major stationary companies, it’s a snugglefest. But it’s December one, and his side of the sheets are cooling, slippers missing, the bedroom door ajar.

“Mark?” you call out, wrapping your dressing gown around you, following your nose to where he might have ended up. “Honey?”

There’s a small crash, from the cupboard under the stairs. “I’m here!” He calls back. As you wipe the sleep from your eyes, you find yourself staring at the back of Mark, his ass sticking out as he wrangles the backed boxes in the storage space below the staircase. It’s a nice view – you’re not going to start complaining – but the early hour isn’t quite as nice. “It’s right where we left it, before I went to space,” he muses, and at that, straightens, holding a cardboard box labelled  _XMAS_.

“I thought you wanted a quiet Christmas,” you blink, realising that your assumptions hadn’t lined up with his intentions. “Didn’t think you’d want all the tinsel and lights this year.”

His face grows a smile so bright it could cure cancer. “You kidding? I’m home with my wife, I’m alive, and we’re going to make this place look like it’s the place where mall Santa goes for a holiday.”

True to his word, Mark gets out the boxes of baubles and Christmas lights, little ornaments of half-dressed baby angels with chipped wings, popsicle stick Christmastime art, the whole shebang. Halfway through untangling the lights, you see him pause, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He’s off like a shot, grabbing his keys to the car, and motioning you to follow. “We don’t have a tree!”

At once he's off like a shot, and following Mark, he jumps into the SUV, and you're both driving to the farm down the way which seasonally sells their homegrown trees. The CD in the dashboard begins to play the last thing you had in it - an NSYNC best hits compilation - and he grins. Without words, you question his smile.

"Just glad you're not a fan of disco," he chuckles, and sings along.

But not too long later, you're at the farm, and having picked out a cute little tree that's about five feet tall, you're on the way back home. The hard part is bringing the tree in.

"Lounge room, or what?" You ask him.

"Yeah, lounge room." He nods, "Under the window, by the sofa that looks like a grandpa used to own it."

You huff, but it's hard to huff around a Christmas tree when the branches are pressed close to your face. "That sofa was a wedding present, an antique!" You remind him, "I thought you liked that sofa!"

The pair of you move the tree into the lounge room to the spot you chose, carefully stepping over the half-untangled mess of Christmas lights left on the floor. You'll decorate the tree tomorrow, it's not like there's any infants around to make the ornaments into hazards.

"I do like that sofa, I fall asleep in it a lot," Mark confirms, standing the tree up in the bucket. "like an old grandpa."

* * *

 

  
It's December 20 when you hear a shout in the middle of the day, from somewhere in the house. Scared out of your wits that there was an accident, or that Mark had let the neighbourhood raccoon into the house again (he stole Mr. O'Malley's prosthetic leg last autumn), you leapt up from your laptop and rushed toward where the hullabaloo was at. But when you get there, Mark is okay, albeit sad.

He's standing over a blackened tray of what probably was supposed to be cookies, but the tray appears to have twelve scorched circles, and reminds you of the coal that Santa Claus gave to naughty children.

"Honey, you baked." You hum, pushing the hair that had fallen into your eyes away, waving your hand to waft the smoke away. "How nice of you."

Mark shakes his head. "I'm shitty at it. I'm a shitty baker. Shitty!" He drops the ruined cookies onto the rack, his hands up in defeat. But he doesn't look as depressed as he could be - he's wearing your flowery apron, and has purple oven gloves on. "I was trying to make the cookies to bring to NASA; Vogel’s kids'll be in tomorrow and I'm not Fun Uncle Mark without cookies."

You go to open a window, and give him a kind smile. "How about we make Cookies 0.2? I'll help out." You ruffle Mark's hair, and peck his cheek. His hair has a few grey hairs, and his face has stubble. You wouldn't blame the grey hairs; he's survived living alone on a planet all by himself. You'd say he earned them. "There's no Fun Uncle Mark without Fun Aunt ______, remember?"

  
When you get back from NASA the next day, you realise that in the span you had both been out, there was a lot more snowfall that anticipated, and the driveway is piled high with freshly fallen snow.

"I'll get the shovels," you open the car door, leaving Mark idling the car in the street, as you grab the tools from the shed. Not five minutes later you have two shovels, and with Mark helping with the task it makes quick work of the driveway. It's after dark when you finish, and with the car parked in the garage, you both warm yourselves up with warmed milk and the surplus cookies. In the orange light of the dying bulb in the kitchen, you take in Mark's profile, and smile. "You're cute, you know that?"

Mark laughs, a ripe blush taking over his face. "I was under the impression you married me for my money, not my looks," he jokes, and putting his cookie down, takes you in for a kiss. "How about we make this evening about Netflix, leftovers and warm hugs?" He proposes.

"Mark, you sure know how to make a girl swoon."

* * *

 

 On Christmas morning, it’s cold inside, and waking, you wonder if you forgot to adjust the thermostat, or maybe if Mark had changed it to be more earth-friendly ( _money wise, he is_ , your father had noted on your wedding day, and chugging his champagne, added, _hope it works out, the botanist and the artist)_. But it feels good, being cold – the blankets are close around your face, the tip of your nose feeling the cold, and is probably red like a cherry. You turn in the sheets, a smile growing on your face.

Mark too is waking, his eyelashes fluttering as he rises through the layers of sleep from the land of dreams. He seems to notice you’re waking too, almost like he’s a mind reader amongst being a famous astronaut and a fantastic husband.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hey,” he whispers back. His voice is hoarse, just like it always is in the mornings, and this morning, you roll to his side of the bed, and wrap your warm arms around his. “Your hair is all messy this morning,” his fingers move to run through it, slowly detangling sleep’s touch. “Happy Christmas, ______.”

You give him a kiss, happy that he’s back with you, back on Earth, alive and well. “Happy Christmas, Mark.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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